


death takes me in his arms

by LydiaOfNarnia



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Death, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-25 21:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12044715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: Babe doesn't want them to let him go. Babe wants tolive.(There was blood on his lips, blood on the bedspread, blood in his smile. “We all gotta die sometime, right?”)





	death takes me in his arms

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

Babe doesn’t want any extraordinary measures.

(“I’m gonna fight for you,” he had promised, back when he was still well enough to promise anything. “I’m gonna do my damndest not to go anywhere as long as you’re still with me. But if it does happen, the last thing I want is to be hooked up to a bunch of machines. If I go, I want to go.”

His grip was frail around Gene’s hand, all hard bone and paper-thin skin. Still, Gene could feel every ounce of Babe’s strength in his own squeeze; and, despite the way the words churned his stomach, he squeezed back.)

Now, with the world shattering around him, all of the promises Babe made and never got the chance to fulfill are ringing in his head. It is all he can do to remain standing.

“What are you doing?” he sobs. “Save him!”

The wail of the machines are almost louder than the strangled moans which tear from his throat. Gene’s heart is crumbling to dust in his chest; his breath is cutting itself off, his body decaying, his entire being flickering out of existence on the cusp of that flat line. It stretches across the monitor, red and glowing, with all the finality of a gunshot or a crashed plane. Babe lies in bed, unmoving. His eyes are closed. His hair is stark against his bloodless face.

“Save him!” Gene hollers again, reeling around. “Get a crash cart!”

Renee doesn’t move. Her jaw is set, blue eyes gleaming, but she does not call for help. She does not rush from the room, and she does not take a step towards Babe’s bedside. The machines continues to screech.

(“It's not living,” Babe told him, entire body quivering from the latest round of toxic radiation meant to save his life. “I don't want to be remembered that way.”)

Gene knows how to do compressions on his own, but his feet are frozen to the floor. His entire body has turned to stone, shaking, crumbling, falling to pieces. He hasn't slept in thirty-nine hours, not since Babe closed his eyes for the last time, and his body is at its breaking point. Even if he could make himself rush to Babe’s side, he wouldn't have the strength to resuscitate him.

And it wouldn't work, a traitorous whisper in the back of his mind hisses. It wouldn't work if you tried. You can't save him.

Gene has known he couldn't save him, since the day Babe got the diagnosis and he collapsed into Gene’s arms. Gene has known that despite all his training, despite all the love in his heart, he cannot save Babe from his own body turning against him.

 _“It's okay,”_ Babe whispered into his chest. The both of them were avoiding the sight of the doctor, of the screen showing Babe’s test results. Instead, Gene kept his eyes trained on Babe’s face; his stubborn composure, the tears brimming in his eyes that he would not allow to fall. _“It's okay,”_ he said again, to reassure Gene or himself. _“It's gonna be okay.”_

(Staying awake became harder and harder. Gene both treasured and dreaded the rare moments of consciousness, though they seemed to cause them both more pain each time.

“When it happens,” Babe whispered to him, voice no more than a fragile croak, “you've gotta let me go.”)

Gene can't feel the ground beneath his feet. He cannot see the sky. He is drowning in air, being strangled by the invisible hands of grief. A life without Babe is killing him already.

He turns to Renee again, desperate, pleading. “You need to _save him!”_

The machine’s eulogy drones on.

Renee looks up at him. She's crying, chest heaving in short, controlled bursts. “Eugene,” she says, and reaches out to him. He jerks away.

“You can help him, you _gotta_ \-- he's _dying,_ do something, why aren't you doing anything --”

Babe doesn't want them to let him go. Babe wants to live.

(There was blood on his lips, blood on the bedspread, blood in his smile. “We all gotta die sometime, right?”)

“Eugene,” Renee says again. She's crying too. “Come on.”

“No -- _no!”_

Her hand closes around his upper arm. Gene tries to yank himself away, but he doesn't have the strength. He's collapsing, but the ground beneath his feet is solid.

Renee leads him out of the room, away. He can not turn back to Babe, to the husk lying in bed, to red hair and white skin and eyes that will never open again. He cannot look back. He cannot remember.

The machine drones on. Gene’s brain goes silent. Somewhere inside of him, a light flickers out, leaving nothing but cold emptiness in its place.

The machine drones on.


End file.
